


If You're Leaving (Let Me Down Slowly)

by ElectricMarrow



Category: Cats (2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Catboys, Drug Use, Introspection, Jellicle Ball, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, Miscommunication, Secrets, Skimblestrap, Sort Of, Suicidal Ideation, Swearing, Trains, cat body language, cat communication, cats became my special interest so rapidly that i pound out like a thousand words a day of this, fuck off tom hooper, munkustrap is cryingggggg, old d is your mom now, self-deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23478112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectricMarrow/pseuds/ElectricMarrow
Summary: The night has been rough, the night has been eventful. There is stress prickling in his neck, there is an eternal urge for his tail to sweep low in nervous irritation. There is a new cat to introduce, there are cats disappearing, there is an outcast on the doorstep that the other cats cannot resist making a fuss over, there is the pressure for this year to go just right once more. There was only the sweet respite of the Jellicle Ball dance to lessen the anxiety that crawled through him, locking eyes with that ginger tabby and knowing everything would be alright the day after.He was still so lost in the glow of those few dancing seconds with a tom he knew only behind doors, that when Skimbleshanks' name was called, he forgot for a minute exactly what they were competing for.
Relationships: Munkustrap/Skimbleshanks, Munkustrap/Skimbleshanks (Cats)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	1. Your Steps Keep Me Awake

**Author's Note:**

> NOTICE: this first chapter is all canon-compliant introspection from skimbleshanks's first appearance to the end of the film. the second chapter is the good stuff, please skip to that if you want the actual action!
> 
> so i'm very stupid, and gay, and sentimental  
> this work inspired by a video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2MQLTNqdVY&feature=youtu.be)
> 
> titles inspired by alec benjamin's let me down slowly
> 
> pour one out for munkustrap's anxiety

The night has been rough, the night has been eventful. There is stress prickling in his neck, there is an eternal urge for his tail to sweep low in nervous irritation. There is a new cat to introduce, there are cats disappearing, there is an outcast on the doorstep that the other cats cannot resist making a fuss over, there is the pressure for this year to go just right once more. There was only the sweet respite of the Jellicle Ball dance to lessen the anxiety that crawled through him, locking eyes with that ginger tabby and knowing everything would be alright the day after.

He was still so lost in the glow of those few dancing seconds with a tom he knew only behind doors, that when Skimbleshanks' name was called, he forgot for a minute exactly what they were competing for.

Watching his dance partner in the spotlight of this year's ball, getting the appreciation he /deserved/; Munkustrap was all too eager to tell his story, prepared to sing his praises at the drop of a hat. (That red conductor's hat, perhaps, hiding that scruff of amber hair that Munk loved to ruffle in their private hours.) What more could he want? His smile grew bigger with every clack of his fellow tabby's feet, every twirling step on the railroad and professional gesture within that Night Mail that Skimbleshanks loved so dearly.

It was only amidst the height of their personal victory that Munkustrap found his world crumbling around him.

(The bigger they are, the harder they fall.)

Tapping shoes together on opposite beds after a successful shooing away of mice, the highlight of an already euphoric festivity, and locking gaze with those famous glass-green eyes—suddenly, Munkustrap saw a regret in the face of his lover, and with the hidden melancholic guilt in that stare he remembered everything they were here for tonight.

Sliding down from that mattress, and chasing after Skimbleshanks in the only way he could—there would be no interruption of the performance, there was no way he could stop it now, all he could do was keep supporting something he was afraid to think about—there was only one thing he could think, one thought left in his head:

/Why/?

Why would Skimble ever go chasing after that particular prize? 

Why would he want a new life?

And why, Everlasting Cat /why/, wouldn't he tell him?

Munkustrap kept his act up as best as he could, and it was not terribly hard to smile at the sight of Skimble tapping out a beautiful rhythm atop a drum (he hardly ever got to see him perform, and so talented he was!), but every moment drove the nail of worry deeper into his heart.

He was surprised he wasn't bleeding out onto the floor of the Egyptian.

The song was coming to an end, the song he knew by heart—it was his lover's, after all; Munkustrap was well familiar with the innate tune assigned to every Jellicle from deep in their heart, but could never forget the chugging lilt of Skimbleshanks's—and the red suspenders of the ginger tabby grew closer and closer to him as he drew near to Old Deuteronomy.

Munk's ears perked up as the tune drew to a close, an eager drawn-out 'train' filling the room as the cat of the railway spun and spun and spun and—

Oh, /shit/.

Watching Skimble rise inch by inch towards the ceiling of the Egyptian, watching the metallic soles of tap shoes withdraw above him. 

Watching him disappear completely.

Munkustrap's heart plummeted in his chest, feeling his emotions suddenly drop and melt down into a horrible sickening feeling in the bottom of his stomach. With a single cloud of magical dust from a cat no one could ever find, with the swirling limber form of orange fur silhouetted by scarlet fabric blinking out of view, with the man he /loved/ and was so worried about already being snatched away from him, his world came crashing down.

He could hardly keep himself from curling up on the ground and hiding away within his own fur, and for a moment he loathed the position he'd chosen that assured him he could not do just that. His ears were perked up in vigilance; his gaze drifted back up to the ceiling in the foolish hope that maybe, just maybe, Skimbleshanks would return, brought back here and now by some strange, wonderful magic.

He did not.

He wasn't /there/ anymore, not close enough to touch, wasn't right where Munk could reach out and grab him whenever he wanted. (He wished he'd grabbed him before he even started; maybe they wouldn't have gone through this mess. He'd take emotional conflict over physical absence any day, if it was Skimble. He'd rather see him angry than not see him at all, knowing he was taken away by a horrible force but not knowing when he would return.)

Yet, and he faced the facts with a dry, heavy gulp—there was nothing Munk could do about that. He was only here, only now, and he turned to Old Deuteronomy to comfort the elder Jellicle with a falseness of reassurance. 

"Macavity," he breathed, a quiet, definite utterance of the man who had done such a thing, and the undertones of vengeance in his breath were heard only by Deuteronomy herself—she flashed him a look with ancient eyes, and her gaze was a question he answered only with the hint of a shrug.

He should have seen this coming, should've known that when Jennyanydots went away, when Asparagus disappeared, when Bustopher Jones vanished into the rubbish can—Macavity was going after the contestants. In his own confusion, he'd failed to put two and two together, and now... 

Skimbleshanks was gone. He did not know if he would ever get him back.

Dear Everlasting Cat, and he thought Tugger would be the mess of the night.

To no surprise, the night did not get better.

Almost directly after that great crushing of a heart he had left too soft, just when he thought his problems had peaked—Macavity himself came to light, first in name as that dratted femme fatale made an appearance, dulling his senses with rare intoxicant (he faintly remembered twitching up on a tabletop, brains addled with catnip, a cocktail glass in his hand providing the entertainment to a much younger version of him buried down somewhere in his soul), and then in person. A dreadful song, bearing the same taste as displaying a severed head—still bleeding, mind you—at an art museum; its end was worse, Macavity somehow finding the gall to demand ascension.

(Macavity was a /bastard/, he knew, depraved and monstrous—but. Anyone, /anyone/ was preferable to Skimble.)

Munk, shaking the drugs from his system, watched the conflict play out on the dazzling stairway, Old Deuteronomy's shadow trickling down the steps and Macavity's grossly shining form backlit by the false Heaviside Layer showcase. He was proud, really, of how their leader, tottery as she was, stood up for the sanctity of the Jellicle Ball in the face of a criminal, a dog-killer, a maniac. He was proud of her, at least, if ashamed of himself for falling prey to gaudy moonbeam theatrics and temptation.

It was hard to keep himself fully sober, struggling his mindset out from the floor of the Egyptian and hoping for some sort of miracle—at least hoping against disaster. It crossed his mind that Macavity might actually /kill/ the Jellicle leader, and the thought sent another wave of nerves wracking his mullered mind and his wobbling body alike. 

Once again, there was nothing he could do.

His helplessness was almost revolting, wrestling with the control of his own body on the wooden floorboards and watching the woman who had raised him be pressured by a fiend to violate the highest event of the Jellicle tribe. Munk felt tears prick in his eyes, giving a shuddering breath lost amongst the gradual gasps of outrage and still-intoxicated moans of his fellow cats.

There was /nothing/ he could do. 

He couldn't save the other cats, he couldn't stop Skimbleshanks, he couldn't fight off Macavity, he was useless, he was worthless, he was incompetent, he was—

Old Deuteronomy was gone.

Munkustrap blinked. The false staircase, proving empty, gone of both hero and villain, retreated. Macavity was gone, and Old Deuteronomy with him.

He swore under his breath, a low moan of a curse serving as his last resort of expression. 

The silver tabby grit his teeth, rising from the floor. 

"Where is Old Deuteronomy?" He queried, soft and rhetorical, in some way a child asking for his mother. 

The twins, notorious as they were but never causing any real trouble until now, scurried along the edge of the Egyptian, desperately trying to hide the shakers of catnip they had bore. Munk felt frustration bubble up hot inside him, and he stood tall and demanding.

"Where is she?" He repeated, insistent. 

"...We don't know," offered Mungojerrie, and though anger shot through him at the statement, Munk knew that it was true. 

Alonzo, on the other hand—Munkustrap stiffened as Alonzo bore down on Mungojerrie, bearing claws and a hiss of contempt. "/Where is she/?" said the snarling brown tabby, poised to strike.

"Look, it was only a bit of fun," came Rumpleteazer, kneeling up by her brother; "We didn't know he was going to take Old Deut," protested Mungojerrie.

Munkustrap felt their sincerity, saw the guilt lingering in the corner of their eyes; nonetheless, there was anger still boiling in his bloodstream, and he raised his claw. A pause, standing in a predatory pose, and then—he let his arm drop, face falling. He was supposed to lead, supposed to be the reasonable one, and reason said there was nothing violence would help now. The twins had been misguided, it was the Mystery Cat to blame... 

He almost wished to be back under the influence. That, at least, had taken the prickling stress off his shoulders.

Tantomile stepped toward him—him, the leader, brought to helplessness by a few quick strokes of malice—with her eyes wide with hope: "There must be something we can do."

"We can't just magic her back," drawled Cassandra, and the defeat in her voice was an awful sound.

"Yes, we can!" Victoria's voice pierced suddenly through the Egyptian, and all eyes were on her. Her smile was so innocent on that white face, and Munkustrap felt the compassion he had given her at the start of the night rise up again. She seemed different, now, if not as young as she was before (her youthfulness he envied, just a little), changed by the Jellicle dance—most kittens were. Her visage was lit up with something like faith. "...Yes, we can."

Her look was as interesting as her statement; Munk started towards her with one eyebrow raised in curiosity. He was fully willing to listen—he'd listen to anything, he'd listen to /Macavity/, if it would fix this night's disaster.

And then the white cat turned to the Jellicle crouched on a wooden beam—Mistoffelees. Munk smiled, for a second; there was a young cat he'd seen promise in, and here might be something promising after all.

"You're a magician," said Victoria, prompting a muddled "What?" from the tuxedo cat.

Munk was quick to interject, knowing he had to be the first to offer guidance in a tribe of reluctant Jellicles: "It's not a bad idea."

He gave a long look at Misto, brows lifted and eyes trusting. "Might be worth a try."

"Really, I can't," insisted Mistoffelees—

"You could try." Victoria, and the intimacy between the two was palpable.

And with that, they were off on another endeavor; Munk felt the air shift as the magician's hat was offered to him and he crept tentatively up towards the stage. He knew he may have to carry the action here—the other cats were afraid, confused, some still partially asleep from Macavity's attack. That was why he was here, in the end; to orchestrate the Ball, to give a little guidance to his fellow Jellicles.

"Cross paws," uttered Mistoffelees, and the quaver in his voice prompted Munk to scurry up the stage.

"Can we get a spotlight?" asked the silver tabby, with enough gusto to bring some confidence to the beginning of the stumbling act. What the magician could not bring himself, Munk would have to provide—that, for now, seemed to be conviction. 

(He wanted Old Deuteronomy back, and /Everlasting/ did he want Skimbleshanks back, but for now he was distracting himself with directing Mistoffelees forward. That, at least, was some competence—that, at least, started Munk back to self-respect.)

"Please—don't make me do this," begged Mistoffelees.

"And a drumroll, please," added Munk, with a little force. 

He scrounged around in the corners of his knowledge for the proper tune belonging to the 'magical cat', and pressed him further towards the front of the stage with a beckoning voice.

...It didn't seem to work. Munkustrap felt the trembling form of the tuxedo cat pressed against his arm, and felt a ray of sympathy shining through his own heavy sky of nerves. A sort of paternal feeling rose in him, and he turned to look squarely at a quivering Misto.

He tried again, this time direct; he pressed a hand under shaking white chin, raising it up so that wide-eyed head was held high. Gently, voice giving the hint of a promise of trust, he started up chorus, and slowly Mistoffelees was urged towards center stage.

Munk watched intently as the magician pulled item after item out of button-lined top hat, shakily introducing himself. His acts seemed strung together loosely, almost random: he was stalling, Munk realised, trying to increase the time before he had to try something real.

Misto gave a slow, half-esteemed chorus, and then paused before the basket Deuteronomy had laid in; Munkustrap gripped the edge tight enough to pale his knuckles.

A grunt, a flick of a wand—

Nothing.

Munk followed Mistoffelees's wobbling movements as he gave a half-hearted strut across the stage, repeating the chorus as if he intended the failure all along. With Victoria's encouragement, the Jellicles chimed in for the tune, and Munk saw the magician straighten slightly as if the crowd's cheering was all he needed. He knelt before the other side of the stage, struggling with his magic and offering it another place to work; the gesture of the wand was repeated—

Again, nothing.

Munkustrap's heart fell for the second time in the night; he found himself much too invested in this solution. Nonetheless—he /had/ to fix this, and if Mistoffelees needed a few more tries to find the answer to the problem they all had, so be it.

Munk, while prying inside his own faith to find another chorus of endorsement, heard that high, hopeful voice ring out again: Victoria was the first to sing this time, and he discovered himself moved by her support.

(He wondered if Skimble had felt like Misto looked now; he wondered if he had invoked in his own inamorato that same connection, if Skimble had felt the love Munk bore for him that strongly. Munkustrap's heart panged, feeling as if it strained from within his ribcage even while he joined in to the chorus.)

There was a rising of conviction in the room; he was all but carried along by a collective hope as they crowded around the magician now kneeling before the basket once more.

A flick of that wand, one that sent Munk's heart skipping along with it—

The Jellicles fell silent as hard work fell fruitless.

Mistoffelees' head drooped, Munk biting his lip as he frantically abandoned this faith and searched out in his mind something, anything else to serve as a solution—

"Oh, well, I never... was there ever..." A croaking, gentle voice seeped throughout the Egyptian; a voice he knew so well came from behind him.

They all turned, and there was the august silhouette of Old Deuteronomy, standing there elderly and floccose, a knowing smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes.

Munkustrap felt a grin come over him instinctively, and he was upon her as quick as he could be. His joy seemed childish, deep-set and congenital, burying his face in the velvet of her fur and taking pure delight in the warmth coming off her. His love was familial at the root of it, feeling maternal hand brush his back and buttermilk scruff brush his ears. This was more than relief; in the few moments it lasted it was euphoria.

Misto set into another rousing chorus, his magic blossoming out from him in the form of a laughable amount of cards and bouquets bursting from his sleeves; he was in the air, he was commanding up the inanimate, he was on the floorboards taking up a dance with Victoria. Munk held Deuteronomy's hand through the display, feeling the elder's awe through the faint quivering of her wrinkled wrist.

It was beautiful; it was a triumph of a messy night.

(Oh, how /badly/ he wished Skimble could see it. It was the sort of showmanship he would have loved.)

(Old Deuteronomy shot him a glance from the corner of her eye, and once again he shrugged it off.)

Down on the floor once again, joining into the spirited dance with as much vigor as he could muster in the afterglow of reuniting with the Jellicle leader; Munkustrap slid out in front of the tuxedo and the white with a gleeful look.

"Ladies and gentlemen," started Munk with an almost manic zeal, "I give you—the marvelous, magical Mr. Mistoffelees!"

The subject of his exclamation took Victoria by the hand, gave a twirl of remarkable grace—and by the time Victoria was turned back to look at him, was gone. She paused, and then her face filled with delight—they turned, and there the magician was, appearing beside Deuteronomy in a burst of smoke.

(Apparition, thought Munk, for a second, even as he proudly watched Misto rub noses with Deuteronomy. Could he do the same as Macavity? Could he—?)

This was a fine time, this was a respite from the hassle of the Ball; Munk let out a low breath, trying to focus himself back in the present when he could rejoice amongst the horde of happy Jellicles.

He passed a remark here and there to his fellow cats, bumped cheeks, took a moment to /breathe/ and distract himself from missing cats and maniac ones.

And then—because of /course/ she did, Munk should've made the connection earlier—Victoria crept in, side by side with a tottering, tentative Grizabella.

It was just one thing after another, wasn't it?

There was the highlight of the night, where he found himself stock-still in the whispery moonlight of the Egyptian, hearing the outcast Jellicle's song vibrate through his body, the /sorrow/ of it all almost incomprehensible. At the side of Deuteronomy, watching Grizabella cry out from within her ragged furs, face turned up to the Jellicle moon and practically begging for the Everlasting Cat to come to her rescue.

He had pitied her from the start, always made sure the queens weren't so harsh on her—but he had a resentment nonetheless, a congenital dislike of her association with Macavity. But this? The sheer misery in a powerful voice broken by a jagged past? The audible pain of only the memory of happiness? He could have never imagined it.

His eyes were damp as could be, his body cold with saddened sympathy; he could not feel her distress but, Everlasting, he /understood/.

Old Deuteronomy stepped forward, reaching out to take the hand of Grizabella—to /touch/ her, the first of the Jellicles to do so in a very long time.

"You," Deuteronomy started, her voice soft but definitive, "are the Jellicle choice."

They gasped, collectively, and Munkustrap could see the weight lifted off Grizabella's shoulders.

And with that, it was done; the Ball had come to its conclusion.

(Was it wrong of him, underneath his happiness for her, to be /glad/, so deeply glad, that it was not Skimble?)

Victoria took up her dance, slender body fulfilled with a latent grace that spoke much more than her song ever could, and slowly they brought the Jellicle choice to the ascension; he watched Mistoffelees light up the chandelier with a sort of fatherly pride. 

Grizabella took her place, the look in her eyes as incredulous as it was euphoric. The crystal amenity started upwards, its second function slowly becoming evident as she floated up past the ceiling—up, up, up, past the Russell Hotel, perhaps, up to the Heaviside Layer. It was beautiful, plain and simple, the hot air balloon taking off to a fate remarkable and unknown as the Jellicles hastened out to the square to watch.

Out in the center of London, out by that feline statue that bore its majestic gaze up to the heavens—there was what he was looking for, there was something that sent his heart soaring up past the Jellicle moon.

Slowly, he let himself take it in, already scampering up the head of the lion to be with Old Deuteronomy; from here he could see Jennyanydots being greeted with much more excitement than earlier that night, here he could see Alonzo and Asparagus making peace with theatrical conflict, here he could see Bustopher Jones reunite with the maitre d'.

And there, as if nothing at all had happened, red overalls as vibrant and impeccably creased as ever, whistle shining around his neck and hat solid upon his head—Skimbleshanks.

The feeling was peculiar in just how sweet it was, borderline nirvana as he took in the sight. He had worried, all night long, driving in an ache in his head and a rippling distress all along his spine. He had /worried/, all night long, and seeing that worry taken away was, in this moment, the most wonderful thing in the world. Munkustrap felt his tail stick up and vibrate in the pleasure of it, eyes dilated with the pure rapture filling him.

If the Everlasting Cat truly was out there, and for now he certainly hoped that it was—he was goddamn grateful.

Munkustrap all but /stared/, taking advantage of his towering position to relish in the sight of ginger tabby mingling amongst the cats, brushing noses with the familial queen he was so fond of. 

For a moment, Skimble glanced upwards, locking eyes with him. In the margins of a second, they gazed at each other with deep, unspoken communication, those glass-green eyes flashing a horrible guilt at him that only furthered with Munk's compulsive look of betrayal.

And then they looked away, and the praise of the Everlasting Cat rang through them.

(He couldn't stop /thinking/ about him, couldn't get the image of that orange-furred face out of his mind, whiskers curled meticulously and eyes deep and bright, mouth ever so serious... He'd fallen in love with it the moment he'd seen it, and every night he got to spend looking at was another medicine to his deep-rooted worry.)

(Was it selfish to want it to never leave him?)

(Was it selfish to want a thousand nights more with tabby-ticked face, with ginger frame and brown tail tangled along his?)

Old Deuteronomy took her turn in the spotlight, to give her peculiar tune and Jellicle manifesto, and it was his duty to join in. It was remarkable how unfazed she was, having been threatened by the Napoleon of Crime, having been kidnapped by him and dragged off to who knows where. He was proud, even, content that it was him sitting at her side at the end of this incomprehensibly eventful night. 

Nonetheless.

They gave their applause, and the Jellicles took their cue to disband; Munkustrap lingered for a second to bid farewell to Deuteronomy. He watched scarlet suspenders tentatively skitter off, tap shoes slung over hunched shoulders—a pause, and Munk took off after him.

The same thought echoed throughout his skull, the only thought that bothered to climb over the kept memory of railway cat visage, just one piercing thought:

/Why/?


	2. A Little Sympathy (I Hope You Can Show Me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long! i contracted bronchitis

The light of the dawn swam slowly in through the square, thick windows; golden sunlight danced over oak floorboards and cast dim, wobbling shadows throughout the halls of the Night Mail. It was a beautiful machine, its 'sleeping car express' more like home than many of the houses of London; the engravings in the doors were just short of art, the curtains hung impeccably in every room as if sculpted there—it was strange to think it was merely a frame for chugging engine scraping violently along iron rail. 

There was a definite beauty to the train, Munkustrap thought, but—

There was nothing more beautiful, he /knew/, than the tom inside it.

He watched, knowing his eyes were foolishly wide with reverence, and not caring all the same, as Skimbleshanks heard his footsteps on those meticulously cut wooden boards—

Skimble, from where he had stood in that half-lit hallway, turned, and Munk could see the tears in his eyes.

They were upon each other in no time at all; he blinked and felt the warmth of the ginger tabby pressed up against him, golden whistle digging into his shoulder. They brushed faces, Skimble's eyes gleaming with emotion Munk had never prepared to see on his lover, the horrible guilt of his gloom almost comical; rubbing heads, Skimble clutching his hat to his chest as he patted along silver-furred shoulder with his cheek. It was long, but never long enough, a drawn-out display of physical affection that sent joy rushing through the both of them—Munk never wanted it to end; an eternity locking tails with the other tom would be fine with him.

They pulled apart, for a second, Skimbleshanks' hair poking up from where Munk had brushed across it in a blind scramble for contact. Munkustrap let out a shuddering breath, and found his eyes wet.

There was little thought in his mind, save a triumphant /yes/ that drowned out his despairing query; there was nothing he could think, nothing /to/ think when the railway cat was right here within reach once more—and reach he did, arms thrown around Skimble and again pressing up against each other, ginger limbs locked over his shoulders and styled whiskers digging into his cheeks. It was the only thing they could do, it had been perhaps an hour but it felt like /eternity/—

There was no choice but to kiss him, and standing there in the center of the hall, he did. 

It was wonderful.

It was /glorious/, it was /sensational/, it was finer than their first one by /far/, Munkustrap would never have to go to the Heaviside Layer as long as he had the memory of this with him—

The Heaviside Layer.

Munk paused, eyes snapping open; Skimbleshanks followed after another moment, slowly dropping his embrace and his gaze away.

He could not yet find the words in his throat, could not yet bear to speak. He stepped back, tail thrashing from side to side in curious anger and arms crossing over his chest as if trying to defend himself from an attack that did not exist.

Skimble stood where he left him, amber ears partially flattened, opening his mouth but closing it slowly. The silence was unbearable, all alone in a still locomotive whose ceiling towered far above them, in the cold sunlight of elephantine London... Munkustrap was starting to feel small.

Perhaps he was, shoulders hunched slightly and eyes thick with lacrimal shine. He opened his mouth in turn, and out in wobbling anger and grief, shaking desperation and confusion, came his eternal thought:

"/Why/?"

His brows were knotted, his head tilted forward slightly as if beckoning towards Skimble. "Why, dammit? Why would you—why would you /do/ that? Why would you /want/ that?"

A step forward, hands falling to his sides and fists clenched together. "And why, Everlasting, wouldn't you /tell/ me?"

Skimble opened his mouth again, and his lip trembled—before Munkustrap could speak again, the ginger tabby was curling into himself with tears, hands spread over his face and quivering.

Shit.

He was angry, yes, he found a part of him wanting to yell—but no matter how upset his actions had made him, no matter how much grief he had gone through for the night, there was nothing at all inside him that ever wanted to see Skimbleshanks cry.

He was upon him once more, Skimble giving a shuddering gasp into his shoulder as he took him all—the other tom was taller by the slightest, but always seemed to fit into his arms, able to fold into his own frame and rub his head up under Munk's shoulder. They had paused the confrontation once more, to /be/ with each other; Munk felt he could stay here for quite a while longer, habitual urge kicking in over his distress. 

"It's... alright," he started, voice soft and almost paternal, and though he was meant to comfort the other, he found his own words settling into something like personal reassurance. "It's going to be alright."

"/Fuck/, sorry," breathed Skimbleshanks, the quaver in his voice jagged. He attempted to straighten up, and the limber ease of his actions from stance to stance brought the overwhelming adoration he had been storing this whole time back to the spotlight of Munk's mind. "I just... I was so /scared/ when, when I found myself on that /boat/—"

"What boat? Calm down a little, now..." Munkustrap urged Skimble down from that sudden frantic high, and before he knew it he was upon the floor, hovering over the crouching tom. 

Skimbleshanks swore again, something of an accent picked up in his routine travel to Western Europe slipping back into his voice. "I, oh... sorry, Munk. I'm sorry, I really am."

His heart gave a little pang. There was sincerity in that voice, the one he knew so well, and he took tear-hot face in his hands, ruffling the orange scruff that sat atop now-sullied personable head. His fingers slipped down tabby cheeks, grip at last resting below chin and aiming to lift in the way he always had, bringing head high when the other felt the need to hold it low. "Hey. Look at me. I... I know." 

He offered a quiet smile, brushing noses once more. "I love you."

"I love you too." Skimble pawed at his eyes, shaking his head, and gave a bitter chuckle when he saw the dampness on his lover's face as well—feeling the warmth of hard-worked ginger hands scrape the faintness of tears off his cheek was all Munk needed to fall back upon him.

They would pause once more, and Munk was a little in awe of how tough their intimacy had proved—if they could still do this, hold each other tight and express affection to their tears, after horrible disappearance and secrets and crime, what could ever break them?

(Not that he had stopped craving an answer, of course. It was just that, in the face of love, it had accepted its place on the back burner, somehow giving way to the maudlin.) Munkustrap felt his heart, certainly tired from the effort of the night, perform another acrobatic trick, jumping in his ribcage as the feeling of that intimacy rocked through him.

(He was certain he'd noticed before—but now, in this slow moment of sentiment, the feeling that ran through him was overwhelming. Everlasting, did he /love/ Skimbleshanks, and the sensation filled him ear to tail. It was peculiar, but it was beautiful; chests pressed up together, even as metal buttons dug into his torso, Munkustrap could feel the faint thump of shared heartbeat, that sort of connection impossible to replicate on your own.)

(How long had he loved him for? He could not put a time on it, although he was certain it had not been for long. A short while, and already it had burrowed deep into him; for a moment he was nothing but that adoration, forehead pressed against the other and breathing slow.)

"I love you," murmured Skimble once more, a sudden steadiness in a wavering voice. Munk responded in kind, and a closed, lingering kiss was the agreement reached from a moment of silent discussion.

"Do you... want to talk about it now, or...?" Munkustrap found himself slightly surprised at his own words, the urgent need for an answer once more receding when exposed to the distressed state of his lover. 

Slowly, the Skimble he knew shone through that precarious vulnerability, and the railway cat attempted to straighten out his shoulders with a dry, short laugh. His smile was wan, rueful. "I... think we have to."

Munk nodded, carefully pulling himself away to give him room. Skimbleshanks tugged nervously at the whistle around his neck, giving another breath of a chuckle—Munk could see the guilt on his face, tucked in the corners of his eyes underneath a strange sort of fatigue.

"...Did you know the great Macavity's headquarters are only a meager boat with an outdated plank? Some old, poor showman called Growltiger, fancying himself a pirate, struts himself about on it—sad, really."

Munk raised an eyebrow, silently asking him to continue. Skimble swallowed, his gaze on the floorboards nervous.

"They... once I, uh, ended up there—it's not very /good/ magic, you know, I ended up several feet above it—they... knocked me out, I think, the mock pirate landed a pretty good blow on me." His hand went to the back of his head, looking as if he was not fully aware of it, and Munkustrap could see him wince. 

"Bound me up, left me just hanging... arms tied, feet dangling—it's like they thought I'd tap my way out of it. Very gaudy. Very old-fashioned. No real villainous showmanship at all." Skimble's voice cracked upwards at the end of his statement, and he gave a broken laugh. Munk watched him, subconsciously, pull himself out just a little, seeing a flash of deep gladness pass his face.

(Skimble had never liked to be outside the control of his own body; Munk had spent more than one morning discreetly watching him stretch out ginger soma and reveling in the very existence of it. It was a peculiar trait, a sort of self-regarding, but it was just another part of the whole of /him/ he had grown so fond of.)

Munkustrap reached out to him, taking faintly shaking hand away from where it clutched red trousers and holding it in his. "...I'm sorry to hear that. That... must have been tough for you. I'm glad you got out."

His words felt empty to him, although he knew their tone came out compassionate; he could feel his want for an answer—his anger at having a question at all—rising up in him, giving a biting undertone to his usual solicitousness. Munkustrap rushed to squash it down, assuring himself that he would get what he wanted in time—patience was the virtue here, patience was what he /needed/, what would get them both through safe in the end. He rubbed at the palm of tabby hand, waiting.

"Aye. I was—" he gave a laugh almost scary in its sorrow—"I was scared for my life, Munk."

"I was scared for yours, too." His voice was quiet, and Skimbleshanks winced at the honesty of it. "...Go on?"

"...There were cats already there—all the contestants of the night. Seemed a shame to have Gus tied up like they did—had him immobile with just one chain. And then, not much after me... Old Deut."

Munkustrap nodded. "Macavity wanted her to make him the Jellicle Choice—of course, she refused, thank goodness—and when she did, he... took her away. Did they... tie her up, too?" 

Skimble grimaced, rubbing his thumb along Munk's. "Er, worse. He demanded that she make him the Choice, or... Growltiger would make her walk the plank."

Munk was silent, brows raised and eyes wide. (Old Deuteronomy was braver than he had thought, and he had thought her very brave already. It was amazing, really, all things taken into account, that she'd kept so calm the whole time, and had still wrapped up the Ball—he admired her, quite deeply, and had since he was a kitten...)

(He wished he'd been that brave.)

Skimbleshanks gave another dry laugh, nodding grimly. "Ludicrous, I know. And then she... disappeared?"

It was the railway cat's turn to lift pale eyebrows, expecting an answer.

"Mr. Mistoffelees," was all Munk gave in return, and the other tom gave a look of surprised appreciation.

"Really! Good for him! Always hoped the kitten had it in him."

"It... took a while for him to get there. But..."

"But?"

"But he got there."

"With your help, no doubt." Skimble brushed Munk's nose, correct but teasing.

"...So, what happened after that? How did you get out?"

"With Old Deut gone, Macavity had no choice but to leave—and then Jenny did that, that trick of hers, with the costume?"

"Oh?"

"Took off a whole inch or so, and she slipped out... from there the rest of us were freed, and Growl-kitten got what was coming to him. You know, I did tap my way out of it, in the end—cornered him, and Gus got that faux pirate scared right off the plank. Amazing for his age—I hope he gets his turn to the Layer sooner or later."

"...Right." 

"Boat wasn't parked too far offshore—it was easy to make it back, once we figured it out. I was a little proud, actually, I think we did well against the so-called Napoleon of Crime."

"I do, too. It's nice to know you made it out alive." Munk's words were quiet, and they landed heavy in the space between them.

A pause, silence thick and pointed, and Munkustrap tightened his grip on ginger hand.

"Why?" He repeated, and he did not need to finish the question.

That glass-green gaze had fallen to the floorboards, and rose only to meet him now, in one tense, shaking second of a stare. Then, they lifted further, past him and up to wherever the Everlasting Cat watched over them. 

"...I'm tired, Munk." Skimbleshanks' voice fell heavy, quiet with a weight unseen.

The silver tabby kept silent. 

He had not expected that strange emotion in his lover's voice, had not prepared himself to hear a horrible intensity of feeling straining through a sound that tried to keep itself steady. His heart gave a slow, definite twinge, and he found himself feeling the same feeling he had when he locked eyes with Skimble on the train and the pieces clicked together; Munkustrap swallowed, and noticed the burn in his eyes that threatened tears.

"I'm... I'm just so /tired/. I—Everlasting, I'm working every day, it might not /look/ like work but it /is/—!" His voice was strange, tense with a sort of frantic anger, rising in harshness by the second and wobbling in volume. The hand Munk held shook, and when he tried to look Skimble in the eyes, there was a damp glaze over green gaze once more.

"I... I'm waited for, I'm expected to /be/ places, every fucking day," Skimble continued, "And it... it was so much /fun/ early on, but now it's... something I /loved/ has turned into a /burden/."

Munkustrap was taken aback by the pained severity that the other tom was expressing—yet, he supposed, he shouldn't be so surprised; his inamorato was sensible enough that he wouldn't dive headfirst into something so serious as the competition without reason (he thought). 

(Nonetheless, seeing Skimbleshanks so /hurt/... it hurt him too. It wouldn't /stop/, the affliction he felt in the depths of his chest; it only rose and rose as ginger ears flattened against a ticked face.)

(...Wasn't he tired, too?) 

(Hadn't he had a long night, worrying over all the missing people, worrying over Skimble, worrying over Old Deuteronomy, worrying and worrying and worrying? Once he'd gotten down from that lion, he'd wanted to retreat back to the address his collar bore and curl up in the cool darkness of the den—just like he had for all the balls before. But he'd had to chase down a terrifying loose end, had to look for the answer to a question he'd never wanted to ask.)

He waited, watching the mouth under curled-up whiskers open and close.

"I'm... getting old, Munk. You know that. I know that. I'm no Gus, but—I know I'm growing old too fast. I'm only going to get older. I..." Skimble trailed off, the cracks in his voice converging into one gaping chasm. He sat still, and then his head sunk, turning into himself so his chin touched the whistle around his neck and his ears brushed Munkustrap's chest.

"Hey, now—" 

Munk was interrupted by the other tom's low, hiccuping wail. "I'm /sorry/, my love—I'm so sorry, I—"

Skimbleshanks gave another trembling sob, and Munk did not try to cut him off. He could feel a second wave of expression wobbling through the other, and all he had to do was wait for it to burst through the dam and flood the space between them.

(He had called him 'my love'. He hadn't said that for a while.)

(It felt good.)

"I—shit, sorry, Munk. Everlasting, it feels like I'm not going to stop crying..." Skimble pawed below his eyes, and Munk reached up to do the same.

"It's... it's alright. Take your time."

Was it wrong for him to slowly be getting angry? He understood the other was suffering, but... Munkustrap kept feeling like the wound left from his realization was being poked.

He swallowed it.

Skimble breathed in, deep and shuddering, and then straightened up. "I..."

("I". He wasn't sure if Skimble had said "you" yet.)

(At least he'd apologised...?)

(He swallowed it, again.)

"I just felt so... exhausted. I feel this stiffness when I move nowadays, and I'm just so /sick/ of having to remember things for all these humans, to /do/ things—I put too much on my plate, Munk." Skimble paused, lowering his head further and further. "And I... I just wanted to...oh, dammit. I just wanted to start over. Another chance, and maybe I wouldn't be so... stupid. Wouldn't think as much, wouldn't get caught up in something and have it turn bad." 

Another beat. "Maybe I... wouldn't be so selfish."

"...Selfish?" Munk couldn't stop himself; he hadn't expected to hear that word. Skimbleshanks was self-regarding, sure, but in that way he /needed/ to be. (It was the bow on a ginger package that let him light up a room... better than Tugger did, at least. He was impossible to look over, he seemed to fill up every inch of himself, he—god, did Munk love him. Underneath everything he'd endured in the past few hours, underneath the pain and the suffering and the anger—there his love was, uncracked, untarnished, just waiting to rear its head.) "Skimble, you're not—"

"Everlasting, Munkustrap!" He spat his name with a strange sort of choler that he had not worn in a while. Skimbleshanks raised his head, almost too close to Munk's for comfort, and his eyes were wide with agitation. "/You/. You know me—you've known me for so long, haven't you?"

It was strange, the way those words fell upon his ears. Anger, for a moment, gave way to bitterness, and then gave way to a quiet love as Skimble inhaled through gritted teeth.

"I've been selfish. I was /always/ selfish. Shit, Munk—I can't /count/ every time I've denied you something, I've denied someone /else/ something." The ginger tabby shook his head, mouth starting to curl up in a rueful little scowl. "And I... entering the competition meant—"

"It meant you were going to leave me." Munkustrap's voice came soft, breaking through his self-control with a dull edge. "You were going to go away... and leave me behind."

He couldn't stop himself from saying it. He'd thought it all night long, had kept it on the back burner of his mind that occasionally bubbled over and filled him with a terrified agony. And now, it had burst out from his lips, and fell flat into the space between them.

It was strange. He almost felt better.

Skimbleshanks was silent, and so was he. The tension in the room wobbled, thick and unsteady, the type a cat could drown in. The sun rose further, slipping the full expanse of its rays through the window; Munkustrap sat in the light of the dawn with his face drawn tight, pained, and silver fur gleaming.

Skimbleshanks, the whistle around his neck glinting in the yellow sunrise, turned his head to the window, as if talking to some creature unseen. (Perhaps the Everlasting Cat was out there, sprawled beyond the Heaviside Layer...?)

His eyes, full of sunshine, were wet, sparkling like a gem—it would have been beautiful, if it had not been sorrow. Skimble blinked, slow and purposeful, and a rivulet dampened the ginger fur of his face. His voice, when it rose up through him, rang out sweet and broken.

"Do you think... Do you think the Night Mail would be better off, without me? Do you think /you/ would?"

The words fell like a brick through a window, and Munkustrap found himself to be the glass shattered on the floor. 

He raised his head, and looked upon the man he loved—in the blink of a gaze, he seemed to be a completely different tom. 

"What are you talking about?" His own voice broke out from him, again. Quiet, shaking, falling out heavy enough to cut the air. (He was not sure if his tongue belonged to him anymore, or if it had ran away in the midst of his shock.)

Skimbleshanks was quiet. 

"What are you /talking/ about?" He repeated the question, voice cracking. 

Faced with the other's prolonged silence, Munkustrap took the railway cat by the shoulders and /shook/. "Skimbleshanks, dammit, what do you think you're saying?"

Those /eyes/, green as bottle's glass, those famous eyes, practically lionized—a sheen of translucent emerald, now wet as the sea; when Munk looked deep inside them, he found himself wrecked by the sadness there.

There was nothing from Skimble but quiet, there was a noiselessness almost devastating in place of a cheerful voice tinged Scottish and bursting out in curious humor. Munk slipped his hands down so he had his arms thrown around the other, clutching ginger fur and scarlet suspenders as close to him as he could.

(If he held him like this, maybe he wouldn't slip away. A tight embrace, unrelenting, and maybe he wouldn't disappear again, fading away into a background of tragedy.)

"No," he breathed, and that was all he could say. 

His head was tucked against Skimbleshanks', like the greeting they had first shared; this, in its turn, was less of a greeting and more of an adamant rejection of a farewell. 

"/No/," he repeated, the insistence in his voice stronger than its shake. "No, Skimble—/never/. You're—do you understand what you're saying?"

Munk could feel his heart hammering in his chest, set to rapid-fire with his nerves shot through. He'd never expected those words, and here he was holding the body of the man who said them, feeling Skimble's shoulders shake against his. (He was crying again, and Munk felt a strong urge to do the same—but this was his time to be strong, to be the defender Old Deuteronomy had appointed him to be.)

(It was hard to be strong, after being battered all night—But, wasn't that his job? To bounce back, to be there for those hurt worse than he?)

(He didn't know. He was tired, and he was upset, but—)

He loved Skimbleshanks.

He loved him, more than anything else. More /importantly/ than anything else.

Munkustrap inhaled, sharp and deep and through his teeth, and set aside all of the conflict of the night that lingered in his head, all the pother within him.

In the span of a second, hearing the railway cat give a hiccuping sob, at the climax of a confrontation, he let go—

What happened was what happened.

Here he was, now, and here was the man that filled his hammering heart with adoration.

"...Skimbleshanks," he started, once he had gotten the railway cat to stop shaking so much, running his hand over lean back until it slowed to a gentle wobble. "You're... you're /not/ selfish, to start."

Silence, from the other, save a small inhale through tightly shut teeth, cheek resting on Munkustrap's shoulder.

"...Duck," he called him, gentle and reassuring. An old pet name, that he supposed he hadn't said in a while either—they were both failing to hold up their weight of external affection, and perhaps justifiably so. (Munkustrap wondered just how much he'd been waving off in the need to make everything just /perfect/ for the ball... he put a pin in his guilt, and went on.) "Duck, I... I was upset when I realised what you were planning, but... I didn't know you hurt like that, Skimble. I... didn't know at all."

Slowly, reaching over to lift up the other's chin, to offer up a tiny smile, a ghost of a kiss. "I wish you'd told me, angel." (Another name, in eagerness to wrap his sentiment up in ribbons, to make up for its belatedness.)

Skimbleshanks dropped his eyes to the floor, and Munk pushed his chin up further so their gazes met; his eyes, when Munk took a good look, shone bright with a watery haze in the light of the dawn. He gave one long stare, looking past the wavering guilt over bottle-green, looking past the fear and the pain in the depths of his pupils—

Looking at him. 

"I wish you'd told me," he repeated, voice cracking upwards. "I... don't want to see you hurt. But--you're not selfish, you're just /you/, Skimble, and I--let /me/ be selfish, duck. Because I don't want you to be hurt, but--"

He abandoned his rambling tongue for his soma. He had never cared for it to any notable degree, not in the way Skimble loved it, and not in the way Skimble regarded his own; he had only ever used it for what he could, in his guidance of the Jellicles, but--sometimes, he found, his words weren't quite enough. 

Munkustrap threw his arms around his lover. Held Skimbleshanks tight, as close as he could, fingers trailing over the edge of red straps.

"But I don't want to let you go," Munk whispered, words falling quiet against ginger fur. "I... don't want to be in a world without you, Skimble. And... maybe it's selfish to keep you here, but—I /love/ you, Skimbleshanks. I never want you to leave."

He could feel his heart beating faster and faster, hummingbird-paced as every word of sincerity left him. "I was upset, because I... don't know what I'd do without you. You... I know you think you're selfish, but... you help me so /much/, and I'm—I'm sorry I don't tell you that. I've been busy, and—I haven't taken the time to tell you. You—oh, Everlasting, I love you." 

Skimble blinked, long and slow and definite; when he spoke, it was quiet, almost reverent in a way that set Munk's heart into backflips. "...Do you mean that?"

"More than anything I've ever said." 

And he tightened his grip. And he held him, as close as he could.

Skimble was shuddering under his arms, starting to sob once more. "...I love you, too."

Silence, with Munkustrap out of words and his heart hammering away in his chest, and Skimbleshanks still trying to fish his tongue out of a sea of emotion. 

Then: "Thank you. Just... Thank you, Munk. For... this. For, sticking with me—I think I..."

He trailed off, and Munk lifted his head slightly, waiting for the rest. Skimble swallowed, attempting to steady the shaking of ginger torso.

"I think I... would want to stick around, with you," he said, slowly, picking his words out one by one. "If... you want me to be here—"

"I want you to want to be here," Munkustrap blurted, then winced at both the phrasing and the timing.

Skimble paused, and then laughed, leaning forward into silver arms in a sort of defeat.

"...I think I want to stay. Things are... difficult, but—" He smiled, faint and just a little sad. "But I think we can work them out."

"Together," Munk tacked on, lowering his arms to take the other's paw in his own.

"Aye. Together." Then, sending his heart into a speed Munk thought might kill him, Skimble leaned forward and kissed him once more.

(Had he done it?)

(His nerves were still almost electric, his heartbeat racing and his breath unsteady, but—had he done it?)

(He had pushed his way through a night of brambles, and he had found the tom at the end of it—Sitting here, hand in hand, kissing back, he loved Skimbleshanks more than ever before.)

Munkustrap let himself go, just a little, let his shoulders ease down. This was a solution he could handle, this was something that wouldn't keep him with his tail weaving in irritation.

The question fell off him, and it felt like the weight of the world lifted off his back.

This was the answer.

"You know," Munk mumbled against the other's mouth, "If the Night Mail is giving you trouble... I'd be more than happy to lend a hand."

"You'd do that?"

"Of course. For you. The humans will just have to get used to me..."

Skimbleshanks laughed. (The laugh that Munk knew, bright and mirthful, with his distinct timbre echoing. His ears perked up at the sound, unable to stop the ecstasy that rose up in him when he heard it.)

"We might have to give it a try. Munkustrap the railway cat, eh?"

A shrug—"It's not a bad idea. Might be worth a try."

Slowly, he stood, and pulled Skimble up with him, watching the ginger tabby attempt to regain the steadiness of his soma. 

"...Someone ought to check up on Old Deut," Skimble noted, offhand, a venture to put some normalcy back in the room. 

Munkustrap nodded, and found the other's tail wrapping around his; they clambered out of the Night Mail, and set off into the rising dawn.

Hand in hand, with their answers. 

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for sticking with me!! this is my second fanwork... ever! i am so excited and happy that this is what it got to be!

**Author's Note:**

> if there are typos (and we all know there are) assume they're intentional. i speak a new language. it's art


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